"Do you know if there is any place near where we can put up? The horse is quite exhausted now, and it is getting dark already."
The man looked up, dull and heavy with sleep.
"Do you think it's the smallpox?" he asked.
"No, you are only sleepy," said Sigrun.
"It's the smallpox, I doubt, all the same," said the man.
But a moment after he pulled himself together.
"There's no help for it," he said resolutely. "There's a place a couple of miles farther on—a 'vagabonds' hostel,' as they call it. We must try to get on to there."
"We must find shelter somewhere," said Sigrun.
"It's the only thing we can do," said the man. "Though I'd rather have kept from showing myself there again. We're across the boundary now," he went on. "We're in Dalsland, and once we're over the next rise, it's downhill the rest of the way. Turn off to the left at the cross-roads, and drive on to the first house you see."
When at last Sigrun had got the horse up over the rise, she saw in the fading daylight a broad landscape spread out before them, gently sloping, and pleasant to see, with many lakes and long wooded ridges, showing up clearly against the heavy, snow-laden air. The beauty of the sight cheered her, and she drove on with renewed vigour, reached the cross-roads, and turned off to the left.